


Change

by Desdimonda



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Argus pre-Legion, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, The Triumvirate, Unrequited Love, Well it is Archimonde, Young Archimonde, Young Kil'jaeden, Young Velen, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 23:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: A night of festival and celebration culminates in a confession that doesn’t want to be heard and an unexpected comfort.





	Change

**Author's Note:**

> This might become part of my longer fic that I’m working on. Actually. It’s kind of part of it. It’s really bitty and all over the place. But I really liked this bit. I might write the next bit to it.

“You seem quiet, brother,” said Kil’jaeden as he pushed aside the swathe of sheer, blue curtain that hung before the balcony, the hum of the music, dimming, as he and Velen stepped outside, leaving the joyous revelry behind. Just for a moment, as Velen had asked. Kil’jaeden obliged, happily. It had already been a long night. His face ached from smiles - some forced, some not - and his voice was hoarse. Although that was mostly from laughter. It had been a fortuitous occasion. The longest day of the year. A day without darkness; a blessed, sacred day often filled with poignant moments and words planned for months on end, to make it just right.

There were proposals; announcements of change; and those who were born on this day were often destined to do great things and become those that mattered. Kil’jaeden had been born on a day like this. And he had become all he had wanted to be.

He watched Velen approach his side, his wistful gaze, lost, as he stared out over their home, their glory, all that they had built - together.

 _Almost_  all he wanted to be.

Velen leaned forward on the ornate railing, the long sleeves of his white robe - simple, trimmed with embroidery of gold - billowing with the cool breeze. A breeze that carried the scent of the baybloom - a flower with petals as gentle in hue as Velen's skin, blossomed their brightest this night.

Kil’jaeden was always one to stand tall, regal and proud, his gentle - but imposing - gaze, watching all, observing, judging, as a leader and confidant. People turned to him for help because they trusted; they looked up to him; they saw the greatness he felt and that he had worked for. It wasn't just the luck of being born beneath a day that knew not the shroud of darkness. It wasn't fate. It was  _him_.

But when Kil'jaeden stood by his brother, alone, it wasn’t that man they saw who turned to Velen. His stance was gentle, his eyes were timid, his posture akin to someone who sought approval. But for what?

His ideals; his mind; his actions -  _everything_  that made him, him.

Their backs were turned to the revelry in the palace, the shroud of the enchanted curtain masking the cacophony of music, of laughter and noise they had left behind. Velen had wanted a moment of peace. And he had asked for Kil'jaeden's company. The noble Eredar would have dropped the world for his word.

Velen took a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes as he drew in the sweet scent, carried by the breeze.

“My mind is elsewhere,” he admitted, opening his eyes again, but staring ahead still, out and over at the world they had built, together. The sky - a delicate red and purple, stippled with threads of clouds - spread over their home in a beautiful shroud. An aura, a blessing, wrapping its wings around their people as they celebrated life and love and all the good that stood behind and before them. It was an idealistic night, wasn't it?

“Is that why we are here?” asked Kil'jaeden, his voice gentle.  He didn't look ahead. He couldn't.

“In part,” said Velen, letting the breeze wash over his face, bristling his thick black hair and beard, elegantly decorated with a braid - two. Golden rings - new - hand etched, circled the tendrils that hung from his face. He'd never seen them before. Velen turned his head, catching his brother's gaze, the intensity in his eyes always near enough to take your breath away, or to make you forget where you were. The Beautiful One, they called him. They were right.

Velen smiled as he turned his gaze back toward the city. He stood up straight, the shoulder of his robe falling down, just a little.

“I'm in love.”

Kil'jaeden held his breath.

His lips parted, just a little, as the words wrapped around his head, and his heart. His hands, decorated with resplendent golden rings and chains, shimmered in the dim light, as they tightened on the crystalline barrier.

Velen, was all, to Kil'jaeden. He was the light at dawn; he was the swathe of stars in the darkest night; he was the laughter of an afternoon; the warm breeze by the shore that carried the longing of memory and the whisper of promise. He, was all.

Kil'jaeden loved him more than himself, more than life, more than anything and anyone. Did he at last, know? Could he see?

_How could you, when I can't even tell you?_

Closing his eyes, Kil'jaeden breathed out, slowly.

“I had noticed you were distracted, of late,” he lied, trying to keep his demeanor casual and calm.

Velen smiled, placing a hand on Kil'jaeden's shoulder.

“I close my eyes and I see her,” he said, turning back to staring out over their city. “When I study, I hear her laughter; when I meditate, I can feel her presence.” He chuckled, squeezing his friend's shoulder. “Have you ever known love like that, brother?”

_Yes._

He smiled, softly, and shook his head. “Close, but not quite as poignant as I can see on your face or hear in your voice,” he said, as the weight of memories, the twist of realisation ripped at his gut. “Is...is she the young Vindicator that serves beneath Kaaryd?”

Velen nodded, clutching Kil'jaeden's shoulder once more, a gentle laugh passing his lips. “The very one. I see you are as observant as ever.”

“You never were one to hide your heart,” he said, clutching Velen’s hand with his own. It was a gesture he hadn't quite meant to do. But he did. And it hurt.

“And you were always one that did,” he said, squeezing that hand. “I tried to convince her to come tonight, but she had duty tonight to patrol the city - to protect - and refused to put her duty - her people and home - aside for her own pleasure, or for me.” Velen smiled. “It only made me love her more.”

Kil'jaeden pulled his hand away.

“I am happy for you, brother,” he said, his words as bright - as sincere - as he could make them. They felt empty. Hollow. Nothing. Like his smile. And his heart.

Velen looked at him for a while, silently. Wide, curious eyes looking at the one he trusted and loved; at his family, his friend, his partner. “I ask for your blessing. Your opinion and approval means more to me, than any.”

Kil'jaeden smiled, taking Velen's hand. “Then you have it,” he said, lifting Velen's knuckles to his lips and gracing them with the breath of a kiss. “Your happiness, is mine.”

For a moment, Velen’s heart paused. He caught Kil'jaeden's eyes, searching, as if he was trying to understand something that he couldn't find; something that he didn't know.

“Now go - go and tell her. That is what you want for tonight, is it not?” said Kil'jaeden, letting free Velen's hand.

Velen looked from his hand and back to Kil'jaeden. The gentle purple of the sky reflected off his skin, beautifully. His eyes always shone brightly - nearly white - but now, they were muted. Dull.

“Thank you,” said Velen, turning away to leave. But before he took that first step, he paused, and turned back.

“Go, Velen,” said Kil'jaeden, his words barely more than a whisper; his eyes staring off and out toward the sky, their home, to anywhere, but him.

And he did.

~*~

“Are you even trying, Kil’jaeden?” said Archimonde as he strode across the balcony, his hooves clicking softly on the shimmering crystal floor. He lifted a hand toward the rippling curtain behind him, restoring the illusion he had shattered by his presence, making sure no prying eyes nor wandering steps would find their way.

Kil’jaeden stood still. His eyes forward; his hands, resting on the rail; his head, poised. The only regard of his friend’s intrusion was the delicate flick of his tail, the thin, gold chain hanging from it, hissed.

“Everyone is looking for you,” said Archimonde, his voice smooth and as elegant as he, as each step he took, as the robe he wore, tailored exquisitely to his body, to the last thread. “You are a _wanted_  man, aren’t you?”

Archimonde approached, slowly, until he stood but a touch away from his friend - his brother in all things bar blood - and smiled.

Breathing slow, and deep, Kil’jaeden still said nothing, his grip on the railing unyielding.

“A very wanted man,” continued Archimonde, as he lifted a hand toward Kil’jaeden’s face and slowly, gently, drew the back of his hand down his cheek, the brush of his knuckles like a breath. Fingertips slid over his shoulder, adorned in an ornate, metal pauldron, etched by the finest hands of the land; they slid down his arm, the powerful muscle pushing against the silk of his garment. Archimonde let slip a small sigh. “Wanted by many. Except…” he leaned in until his lips near brushed the edge of Kil’jaeden’s ear. “Except the one _you_  want.”

Kil’jaeden turned, the slant of his eyes the only betrayal, for he gave no words.

“Usurped by a fledgling Vindicator,” said Archimonde, his hand slip, slipping down the other’s arm. “Such a shame; such a waste.” Fingers twisted with his, gently prying them off the balcony rail.

Kil’jaeden wasn’t sure why he let him, but he did.

“He loves her,” said Kil’jaeden, suddenly. “In all our years together, I’d never seen him so happy as when he told me.”

Archimonde lifted the hands to his lips and kissed Kil’jaeden’s knuckles. The other watched, his lips parting as the echo of a memory of him doing the exact same gesture to Velen, not long before, twisted his stomach.

Taking his other hand, turning him from the balcony, pulling him closer, Archimonde drew the other in, and Kil’jaeden couldn’t turn away. Was it the intensity of Archimonde’s eyes - the way they could command you without a single word? Was it the touch, of hand to hand, of fingers that slid along arm, shoulder, chest, pushing apart the front of his shirt? Was it the empty ache inside his chest that made him not want to care, anymore?

Archimonde took a step closer, until their bodies met.

“Then let me make you  _forget_ ,” said Archimonde, the words a whisper as his lips ghosted against his cheek.

Kil’jaeden felt his back collide against the cold, crystalline wall, as he began to forget.


End file.
